Текст книги "Last Breath"

Автор книги: Jessica Clare

Соавторы: Jen Frederick
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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

I wish I was back in that shower with Daniel.

I picture him behind my eyelids, his strong arms flexing as he lathers up his cock and jerks himself to fulfillment. I wish I could see it. I’m not sure if I should want that, but I’m tired of being the nice girl that does what she’s supposed to. It’s gotten me fuck all in life so far.

The water stops, and two minutes later, the door to the bathroom opens. “Regan?” Daniel asks, clearly surprised to see me tucked into bed. “Didn’t you want to go get breakfast?”

I shrug, wallowing in self-pity. I don’t open my eyes.

“You okay, baby doll?” He comes to the side of the bed, a towel wrapped at his waist. A washcloth is pressed to the wound at his side that he assures me isn’t bad. You wouldn’t even know it was there from the way he acts, except there’s pink seeping through the white of the towel.

I know he’s calling me that nickname I hate to rile me up, but I don’t have the energy to bite back at him at the moment. I’m a tangled knot of emotions, and right now the only one that seems to rise to the surface is sadness. Regan Porter, the get-along girl, is totally broken. I hate that.

“What’s bothering you?” he asks, and there’s a hard edge of concern in his voice. I squeeze an eye open and see his eyes scanning the room, no doubt assessing a threat.

I feel guilty for making Daniel panic, so I sigh. “Is it weird if I say I think I need a hug?”

He looks down at me in surprise and then chuckles, that roguish grin stealing across his handsome face again. “You want me to slide into bed with you and cuddle?”

“Actually, that sounds amazing,” I tell him and sit up, hugging the sheet to my breasts. “Is it weird if I want to cuddle?”

“Does it matter? Nobody’s here to judge,” he says, sliding a leg into bed and then pulling his big body down on the left side of the bed. He keeps a hand at the towel at his waist, and then he’s lying in bed next to me and lifts an arm, gesturing that I should come tuck my body against his.

And I can’t resist. It’s been so long since someone’s touched me with kindness and affection—not sleazy motives—that I move right over to him, tucking my face into the crook of his neck and wrapping an arm around his shoulders, even as he settles his arm against my back. He’s warm and damp and he smells like fresh soap. So good. I love the feel of his skin pressing against mine, and the hand that tenderly strokes my shoulder. Not in a sexual way but to comfort.

I burrow against him. “Thank you.”

“Anything you want,” he says in a low voice.

I’m not freaked out by the touch of Daniel’s skin against mine anymore. It doesn’t make me want to puke. Instead, I relax and sigh as he continues to idly stroke my skin with one hand, my body pressed against his. We’re both more or less naked underneath the sheets and towels, but it doesn’t feel sexual. At least, not yet.

I can’t really forget about him jacking off in the shower, though. It’s there in my mind every time I close my eyes.

I open my eyes languidly, feeling warm and loved for the first time in forever. My stomach’s growling, but I don’t want to move. I am feeling too good. I see the washcloth is still on his side, and I slide my hand down his chest and peel it away from his wound. There’s a bit of bruising, and it looks like there’s a big slice down his side. It’s still seeping blood. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Nothing a bit of superglue won’t fix,” he tells me, and his hand brushes my wet hair off my shoulders.

It feels so good that I turn my face against his neck again and nuzzle him before I even realize what I’m doing. “Mmm.”

Against me, Daniel stiffens. “Regan,” he murmurs. “Baby doll—”

“I know,” I tell him and let my tongue flick against the hot skin of his neck. Truth is, I’m relaxed and loose and I don’t want to lose this moment. Nice, sweet, agreeable Regan Porter would be scandalized, apologize to Daniel, and retreat because that would be expected. But that’s the last thing I want to do. He’s warm and delicious and I’m feeling good in his arms.

I want to keep feeling good. So I slide a little closer to him and let the sheet drop from my breasts. “We’re hugging, right, Daniel?” I say this even as I lean in and bite at his collarbone with my teeth. Ooh, he’s hard and muscled everywhere, and so warm that it’s like snuggling with a heating blanket. “You’re not going to touch me, right?”

“Not unless you tell me to,” he says.

I won’t. I’m not ready for that yet. But I’m feeling a little . . . adventurous. I run my hand up his chest again, avoiding his wound and admiring the warmth of his skin under mine and how there’s not an ounce of fat on him anywhere. He’s pretty, this assassin. If I wasn’t screwed up in the head, I’d be drooling over the sight of him every time I turned around. It’s good that I’m all fucked up, or I’d jump him every chance I got.

My nipples are pressing against his skin now, and to my surprise, it feels good. There’s a low, languid pulsing between my thighs that excites me. I’m aroused for what feels like the first time in forever, and Daniel’s not doing anything but stroking my hair and my shoulders.

He’s safe.

And that’s even more arousing. I shift against him, letting my nipples brush against his skin again, and inhale sharply when it sends a jolt of delicious sensation through a body that I thought was dead to sexual feeling. I slide my hand off of his chest and push it between my thighs, curious.

I’m wet.

Just touching Daniel, snuggling with him, knowing that he’s safe for me to play with is arousing me. “I’m wet, Daniel,” I tell him in a soft voice, sliding my fingers against my pussy, delighting in the feel.

He groans and the sound is like the one in the shower, which makes my inner muscles clench all over again. I look down and the towel at his waist is tenting, his cock responding to my shameless rubbing against him. Or my words. Maybe both.

And he’s not going to touch me. I could rub against him like a cat in heat, and he’s not going to do anything but hug my shoulders because that’s what I want.

I continue to stroke the slick flesh between my thighs, pressing my breasts against his side and licking at his neck. My hips are moving in little circles now, and I shift, sliding one of my fingers deep inside myself and whimpering at the sensation. Oh, masturbatory pleasure, my long-lost friend, how I’ve missed you.

I glide my tongue along Daniel’s neck again and then nip at his ear, pleased to feel a tremor move through him. His hand hasn’t moved from my shoulders, but he’s gripping me a little harder than before, and I’m getting to him. I like that. My hand moves faster between my legs, and I rock down on it, enjoying the sensations moving through me. I look down at his lap, at the towel practically falling off his hips now. His cock is large under the towel. Guys like him that ooze confidence are always big-dicked, aren’t they? You can tell in their swagger.

“You jerked off in the shower, didn’t you?” I ask him, nuzzling my nose against his neck again.

“Hell yeah. You’re fucking sexy as hell,” he says in a low, harsh voice.

“Mmm.” I’m practically purring at the thought, and I rub my breasts against him again, sucking in a breath when my pussy clenches around the finger I’m working in and out of it. “Would you do it again for me?”

“You want me to jerk off again?”

“Mmmmhmm. Right here.” I slide my nose along the tense chords of his neck, aroused by the scent of him. “So I can watch. I won’t touch, though.”

He mutters a ragged “Christ,” and then his hand clamps on my shoulders, even as the other drags the towel away and he grips his cock in his hand. There’s pre-cum on the crown, and I admire the sight of him as he begins to work it in his hand. I’ve seen a lot of dicks in the last few weeks—more than I prefer—and Daniel has a nice one. Thick and meaty, with a nice, bulging crown. The kind that feels good deep inside a girl.

That gives me a shiver, and my finger works harder in my pussy.

I’m rocking my hips as I ride my fingers, and I watch him as he strokes his cock rapidly, hand working his length with an expert grip. I want to come, but I need more. I add my other hand between my legs and begin to play with my clit, my face pressing into his neck the only thing keeping me propped up as I work myself over. It’s still not enough.

“Tell me,” I say to him, “if I had sex with you, would you give me orgasms?”

“Goddamn.” I feel the cords in his neck tense. “You want me to talk dirty to you?”

I nod then swipe my tongue against his neck again. I’m in my own little world right now, nothing but Daniel’s skin and my own hands and the need to come.

“I’d give you the best fucking orgasms, Regan. I’d push my face between those creamy thighs of yours and lick your pussy for hours. I’d spread those sweet little lips of yours and bury my tongue inside you until you were wiggling on it, and then I’d make that little clit of yours pop out for a little attention of its own.” His hands are moving faster on his cock, and I’m fascinated by the way he strokes the head, smoothing pre-cum down his length with a quick, fluid motion, his pumping never ceasing. “I’d tease that clit of yours with the tip of my tongue until you were dripping hot and bathing my face with how much you want me.”

I moan at his words, my fingers working faster in my pussy. My skin is making slick, wet noises with the force of my actions, but I don’t care. I need to come, if only to prove to myself that I can.

“And I’d drink up every last drop,” Daniel tells me. His voice is low and husky, and I feel it vibrating in his neck, against my face that’s still buried in that safe spot at his throat. “And then I’d make you come all over again, to watch your face. And when you’ve come so many times you’re screaming my goddamn name with every touch, I’d throw your legs over my shoulders and fuck the hell out of you.”

The visual makes me shudder, and my fingers slide against my clit, faster and faster. “Yeah?” my voice softly whimpers.

“Oh yeah,” Daniel says in a ragged voice, his hand working his cock even harder. “God, I’d love to see that. Touch your smooth skin all over and hear you screaming my name. See those sweet tits of yours bouncing as I fill you up.”

I inhale sharply at his words.

“And when you’re screaming my name, I’d lean in and kiss you,” he says in a soft, delicious voice. “So you’d know what you taste like to me.”

The thought of Daniel leaning in and kissing me as he’s fucking me—that sweetness mixed with the rawness of sex—is enough to send me over the edge. A jolt shudders through me, and I realize I’m coming. I bite my lip as I do, which causes my breath to wheeze against his throat, but I don’t care. It’s glorious and wet and tense and wonderful and I’m coming and it’s not ugly at all. It’s safe and delicious and it’s with Daniel.

As I come down, he’s stroking his cock still, but his grip is so tense I know he’s waiting for some signal from me to let himself go. I think if I told him to stop right now, he would. But I don’t want that. I want to see. So I slide my fingers from my pussy and place them, wet, against his lips.

He groans hard, and then he’s coming. His hips jerk as his tongue brushes my fingers, tasting me, and I watch cum erupt from his strokes, spattering on his stomach and groin.

And I sigh with pleasure, feeling languid and better than I have in days. “Thank you, Daniel,” I murmur, cleaning him off with the sheet. His hand has never left my shoulders.

Daniel is totally, utterly safe. And I want him more than anything.

My stomach growls, reminding me that I haven’t eaten a normal meal in forever. I ball up the sheet that I’ve used to mop his cum, toss it off the bed, and then roll away. “We should get dressed. I’m starving.” I’m actually feeling pretty pumped at the moment. My heart’s still beating hard with the aftershocks of my orgasm, but I feel good and loose. The slickness between my legs is a nice feeling because it’s mine and I wanted it there.

I’m not broken after all; I’m a little damaged. And the thought makes me feel alive.

Daniel, poor man, looks a little dazed at my rapidly changing mood. “Breakfast? Now?” He looks like he could take a nap.

I nod and drag my backpack onto my side of the bed, grabbing a T-shirt and bra and pulling them over my head, one at a time. “I’m starving. What’s our schedule for today?”

When I finally pop my head out of the T-shirt, I see Daniel give his face a quick rub before swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “Breakfast. Then pharmacy. Then we meet Luiz for our papers. And then we see about getting a new room.”

I bite my lip, thinking about how maybe we should get condoms. The thought doesn’t make me want to puke like it would even a day ago. Because, in the near future, I think I want Daniel to touch me.

Sixteen

Daniel

REGAN IS QUIET AS WE order breakfast at the cleanest cafe I can find within walking distance. Maybe she’s thinking about what the hell happened back in the dingy hotel room. It’s all I can think about. Her smell is on my skin, and the sun is baking it into every pore in my body. I don’t know if I will ever regret it though. If this is all I carry with me when we part, isn’t it enough? It’ll have to be. “This is very, um, ordinary,” she says, forking a bit of scrambled egg into her mouth.

“I thought something familiar might be appealing about now.” I smothered my eggs with hot sauce, and I used to love the spiciness of chorizo sausages, but right now all I can taste is the tang of Regan’s pussy as she pressed her fingers against my lips. The only thing I really want to eat right now is sitting across from me, her legs tucked primly to the side. Consuming food is reflexive at this point. My body knows it needs fuel, so I’m shoveling in the protein and carbs as fast as possible. But my head is back in the hotel room, and we aren’t having a mutual masturbation scene. Oh no, I’m fucking her. I’m driving deep inside her cunt and feeling her slick juice lubricate every thrust.

“How do you know Daisy and Nick?” Regan’s question shakes me out of my fantasy, and I drag my attention back to the table and her question. Be a human being and make conversation, I order myself.

“Ahhh, through friends,” I say vaguely wondering if I could avoid the topic of Vasily Petrovich forever. Russia is one of the leading exporters of flesh, although the home of the brave isn’t so far behind. “You?”

“Daisy answered my ad for a roommate. She’s fresh off the farm. I’m worried about her. You know she hadn’t left her town in years because her dad was a big agoraphobic? She was running away from home at the age of twenty.” Regan laughs a little self-consciously, tucking a lock of hair behind her delicate ear. If I were a soldier home for a couple weeks of furlough and had run across her, I’d have been on her like gravy on biscuits. Hell, I’d have had to fight off some of my squad mates to get to her. And now I’d had a taste of her. I’d heard her sexy noises as she got excited, the soft, wet sounds as her fingers worked her pussy, the moans of relief and satisfaction when she came. And I’m gone again.

“Daisy seems . . . trusting.” Daisy and Nick were perfect for each other. He was a crazy psychopath, and she didn’t know any better that he wasn’t normal. I vaguely remember giving Nick dating advice at one time. He’d laugh—if he knew how—if he saw the state I was in.

“Yeah, too much so, I guess.” Regan sighs and then pushes her eggs around on her plate a bit. “I called my boyfriend when you were in the shower.”

Boyfriend? Oh right, the Mike dude who can’t keep it up for more than five seconds. That’s deflating. I’m cooking up fantasies about the fifty ways I could make Regan come, and she’s worried about calling the guy who’s never given her an orgasm. “That’s fine. Phone’s a burner.” I wondered if she was worried that we were going to get tracked down. “You should call your parents.”

“What can I say to them? I’m here in Brazil, but I’m on the run because some crazy guy with a blonde hair, green-eyed fetish is preventing me from flying home? And by the way, Mike’s already moved on to my girlfriend Becca.”

“Sounds like she’s not much of a girlfriend.” I try to hide my satisfaction that Mike’s not in the picture. I wonder if I should off him, though. Just for being a douchebag. I think the world can only sustain so many asswipes, and I’d be doing a favor making sure the scales were even.

“Yeah,” she answers glumly.

I wonder if she’s the most torn up about Mike or Becca or her parents? Girl has a lot on her plate. Guess she has the right to be upset about any and all things. I make what I hope is a sympathetic face and continue eating. It’s either that or get on a plane and shoot Mike in the nuts.

“I’m in college, you know. I’m working on getting my CPP.”

Taking the last bite of my chorizo, I look disapprovingly at Regan’s nearly uneaten plate. I wonder if she doesn’t like the food or the company. Too bad. She needs the fuel. “Start eating. We have places to go.”

She frowns but mechanically starts eating again.

I lean back into my chair and stretch my legs out. Man, I’m tired. Regan and I need to get to Luiz, and then we need some serious sleep. Or I’m going to make a mistake—like touch her the next time she licks my neck. My fingers curl into my coffee cup as I think about that and her wet body and her pussy-slicked fingers pressed against my lips. That non-sex was just about the best sexual encounter I’d had in far too long.

“What about you?” She gestures toward me. “Did you always want to be a gun-toting maniac?”

“Nah. Thought I would go home after I got out of the army and help my dad out on the ranch.”

“So why aren’t you?”

“Because I was a hothead. I got into a fight my senior year with some guy, and I broke a few ribs. Jackass was making fun of my sister. Judge told me I could have a blot on my record or I could go enlist for four years. I choose enlistment. My dad was pretty pissed off, and we exchanged some angry words about me not being good enough to run the ranch and him being too much of a control freak. I ended up staying in the army and then . . .” I trail off. “Then something happened, and I haven’t been able to go home. But once I right that problem I’m heading for the ranch, and I’m not leaving.” I change the subject because I’m done talking about me. “What’s a CPP?”

“Certified Payroll Processor. It’s a pretty intensive certification program that you take so you can work in accounting and human resources. Once I’m certified, I have a standing job offer from a company that provides payroll services to Fortune 500 companies."

“And you are going to do what?”

She shrugs. “Nothing anymore. I’m not going to be able to take the test in time, which means all my prep classes are wasted, which means I won’t be able to start my job, which means . . . I don’t even know anymore.”

“This is a fucked up world, darlin’. That you’re still breathing oughta be counted as a win.”

“It’s . . . how do I go back to that?”

“To what? Your dick-for-brains boyfriend? Your job that you talk about with all the enthusiasm of a goat herder?” I’m getting angry, and I can’t even pinpoint the real cause. Is it because I am pissed off that she still cared enough about her boyfriend to contact him? That she actually called him a boyfriend? That she didn’t care enough about herself to be with a guy who could give her a real life orgasm? That she is thinking about going back to Minneapolis, the coldest tit a witch ever froze, to take up a job that would turn her into a zombie in under three years? Or that she is so achingly goddamned beautiful, and that I want her so much my balls might fall off?

Even though my external word vomit doesn’t match my internal bloviating, Regan still looks taken aback, but she rallies quickly.

“You know, I’ve gone through a lot and am still standing, so you can dial back on the Robin Williams Die Hard inspirational speeches. You suck at them.”

“It’s Bruce Willis, and I know.” I grin at her because I’ve never been one to stay angry long and her confusion between Bruce Willis and Robin Williams is funny as shit. “Let’s go, fighter.”

“Fighter. I like that. You can keep calling me that one.”

“How about baby fighter? Or fighter doll?” I tease. I pay the bill and gesture for Regan to step out in front of me.

“You staring at my ass? Is that why you always want me to go first?” She sasses back, whatever hurt my incautious words may have caused apparently gone.

“You do have a fine ass, fighter baby,” I whistle. “It’s plump and bitable like a juicy piece of Brazilian fruit.”

“Yet you haven’t even attempted a taste. Maybe you don’t like Brazilian fruit?” she sashays out in front of me, her ass swinging back and forth, looking like a true Rio native. All the ladies in Rio seem to have a special hitch in their step that makes people-watching down here almost mandatory. But right now my eyes are glued on this one Minnesotan’s prime real estate, and my head’s reeling from her very obvious come-on. I don’t really know what to make of it.

“I love fruit,” I say. “I never like to eat where I’m not invited.”

“What kind of invitation is it that you need then? An engraved one with gold lettering?”

I want to pull her aside, maybe push her up against one of the concrete walls of the buildings lining the Rua Visconde de Pirajá and test out that invitation. She laughs and then snaps her fingers. “Better close your mouth, baby boy, or flies will land there.”

Snapping my jaw shut, I hurry to catch up with her. Who said we needed sleep when we got done with Luiz? I’m thinking there are a dozen other things we could be doing in a soft, warm bed between some cool, clean sheets.

Whistling, I wink at Regan, and she gives me a big smile in return. Life is easy when you don’t think about anything but the moment. We’ve got to get Regan papers, and then we’re checking into a decent hotel room.

“This is a pretty nice place,” she says as we walk down an avenue full of luxury brand stores. “I mean, I think these are nicer stores than we have in Minneapolis.”

“Ipanema is the second-wealthiest neighborhood in Rio.”

“And we’re going to see a forger here?” she asks.

“Maybe it pays well?” I stop at the address that Pereya gave me. It’s an art store—a high-end art store.

“This?” Skepticism drips from the word.

Opening the door, we step inside, the air conditioning almost too cool for our skin. Regan shivers noticeably, and I wrap an arm around her instinctively. She leans into my embrace. For the warmth, I remind myself, but I find myself pretty damned pleased.

“Tudo bem?” A lithe, model-tall woman walks toward us, her dark hair caught up in a heavy braid that lies like a thick snake on her shoulder.

“Just awesome,” I lie. “Look, I could give you a big song and dance complete with code words and shit like that, but I need to see Luiz. Pereya sent me.”

A speculative glint appears in her eyes, and she says, “Wait here.”

“Is this the place?” Regan whispers after the leggy brunette disappears into the backroom.

“Hope so.” I force myself not to follow the brunette into the back. Shifting our heavy bags over one shoulder, I try to relax. The artwork on the wall is stunning, but clearly directed toward tourist tastes with iconic shots of Sugarloaf Mountain and the Christ the Redeemer statue. In the middle of the room on a pedestal is a crystal sculpture that looks like a futuristic piece of kryptonite, only it’s not green, just clear glass. After a moment, the attendant waves us in the back.

Luiz is a small man, barely coming up to my chest. Or maybe he was once taller, but he’s so spent so much time bent over a table, his natural height reduced about four inches by the forward roll of his shoulders.

“What do you need?”

“Credit cards, passport.”

“For who?”

“Two blondes.”

“This one?” He points to Regan.

“Yeah, and one more.”

“Do you have a picture?”

I do. “It’s twenty months old though,” I caution. Pulling out my wallet, I lift out the picture I’ve kept in a vellum envelope in an interior pocket. I’ve had this picture with me for a long time, just for this purpose. When I first started out in mercenary work, I hadn’t realized how important false identities were—being able to change your name and move throughout countries with ease is something of a necessity in my line of work. I have dozens of identities but none for Regan. I have a couple of stolen identities I carry around for my sister, but I might as well have something made up for her while I’m at it.

Luiz nods and takes the photo with tweezers. I can tell by his meticulousness that our papers will be flawless.

“It will be two weeks.”

Regan, silent the whole exchange, finally speaks up. “Two weeks?”

“Tomorrow,” I say implacably and pull out a wad of cash to sweeten my demand.

Luiz shakes his head. “Detailed work takes time.”

Regan makes a distressed sound, and I shove the cash at Luiz. “Tomorrow.” At his hesitation, I draw a gun and everyone ducks, but I aim it toward the crystal sculpture of Sugar Loaf Mountain sitting in the middle of the showroom. “Tomorrow,” I repeat.

Luiz looks at me, the heavy bags at my back, and then the cash. “Tomorrow then.” He gestures for Regan to stand against one empty space of white wall and takes her picture.

I holster my gun and shove the cash in his hand. Gesturing toward the door with my head, I urge Regan out.

“Why not now?” She looks like she doesn’t want to leave without the papers, but I don’t want to piss off Luiz anymore. I drag her out of forger's office and into the street. She looks unhappy, and I miss her sunshine-like smile from earlier this morning.

“Let’s go get our stuff and then check into a better hotel. I feel like I need another shower after lying in those sheets.”

“Who’s the girl?” she says.

“The girl?” I’m not sure I follow her. What girl? She’s the only girl I’m with.

“The other girl. The one with her picture in your wallet? Who is it?”

“My sister.”